


Tampering with Time

by HappySeaNinja



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, Castlevania Series Spoilers Season 1 and 2, Demons, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mystery, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Supernatural Spoilers up to Season 8, The Winchesters and Belmont team up to hunt something, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26128618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappySeaNinja/pseuds/HappySeaNinja
Summary: AU - canon divergent. Sam has a vision of a hunter being killed in a tavern and wants to help him. He ropes Dean into traveling back in time to save the stranger. Once there, they find themselves stuck in the past with a possible case, an ungrateful drunk, and a mage who won't leave them alone. With bodies mounting, and the Church on their backs, they have to walk a fine line to avoid persecution.Or, where Sam just wants to help people, Dean wants to know why Sam is having visions, and Trevor just wishes people would leave him alone.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Prophecies, Pizza, and Plans

**Author's Note:**

> I thought hunting the supernatural in Castlevania was similar to that in Supernatural, so I wanted to create a fic where the Winchesters meet Trevor Belmont. It's set two years before season 1 of Castlevania on Netflix, but there are some minor spoilers for seasons 1 and 2. Likewise, this is based primarily before the start of season 4 when Dean returns from hell, but it makes reference to themes and characters in season 4, and some small references to later seasons (up to season 9). You'll still understand it if you've only seen the first five seasons of Supernatural, or know what happens during them. 
> 
> I apologise for any grammar, and or spelling mistakes, and I hope you enjoy it. (I've not figured out if it is a parody or a genuine fic at this point).

Dean’s annoyance at the substitution of spicy chorizo over salami evaporates as he enters the motel room to find Sam convulsing on the floor. Tossing the pizza box to the side he runs towards his brother, trying to prevent him from cracking his head open on the bedside table. “Sam! Sammy can you hear me?” he moves the nightstand out of the way and turns his brother on his side, just like they discussed he would do after the first time this happened and Dean had tried to jam a sock in his mouth like he’d seen in the movies. 

Precautions undertaken, Dean backs off to give his brother space and sits on the hard, unforgiving, and familiar plastic of the motel chair. He starts his timer. A small voice at the back of his head registers that timing it won’t do much because he missed the start of it anyway.

Still, one minute, one minute thirty, two minutes…

At three minutes in, Dean’s hand is poised on the green call button and 911 when Sam’s body finally goes limp. He puts the phone aside and waits, he knows better than to go over to his younger brother though every fibre of his being is begging him to do just that.

A new timer, one minute, two, two minutes ten…

At two minutes seventeen seconds Sam opens his eyes and sits up. With exhausted movements he shakily stands and collapses on the twin bed before looking at Dean with bleary eyes. “That’s the third one this week.” Dean says gravely, his own expression guarded because Sam doesn’t need to see his concern or how unnerved he is.

“It was the same one.” Sam replies staring off to a corner of the room. Dean follows his eyes to the grease stained pizza box faceplanting the faded red and gold carpet as though it’s had one too many. After a moment Sam adds with bone-tired words “Yeah, it’s the guy who gets decapitated in a tavern… it looks like the set of The Name of the Rose, or Van Helsing or something. I think he's a Hunter, he had a pendant to ward against possession.” Before going back to the fruitless staring contest with the pizza box while Dean mulls this over.

Families burning in haunted houses he can understand, it’s worrying sure, but those people are real. Dracula, on the other hand, isn’t. The life of a hunter and his stint in Hell has opened Dean’s eyes to the myriad of possibilities and creatures that can and do exist, but Dracula isn’t one of them. At least not the Gary Oldman style 14th-something century rendition with the Eastern European castle, nor some real medieval brick and mortar tavern with the wooden beams, fur clocks, and unmistakable smell of horseshit that goes too far above and beyond to be contemporary LARP-ers. Of this Dean is certain, Sam can’t be seeing anything real. He sits back in his seat, and reaches to grab one of the beers from the table. In doing so the fabric of his t-shirt rubs against his shoulder, poker hot and loitering in the third-degree, and he hisses sharply, his arm spasming. “The burn still bothering you?” Sam, all tired eyes, mussed hair, and pale face asks him.

“It’s okay.” Dean grimaces as he takes a swig of the shitty off-brand beer.

“Dean-”

“I said it’s okay Sam!” and his voice is sharper than he intends while Sam’s is a weak joke of the frustration that usually graces every syllable. Rubbing a hand down his face Dean amends his point “I mean yeah it’s sore, but it’s healing.” His voice is softer this time. He still has no idea how he’d come back; he just knew that Sam and Bobby hadn’t been the ones to do it. Nothing weird had happened since the Gas n’ Sip had blown out on him, the weirdness is firmly fixed on Sam again and a small part of Dean is somewhat relieved while a larger part of him hates himself for being so. It just means the focus isn’t on him though and that’s great, because he doesn’t think he can handle another concerned glance from Sam or Bobby right now.

“So, what do we do about it?” Sam asks, drawing Dean out of his thoughts.

“About what?” he responds confused.

“The visions Dean.” And this draws Dean up short, because how is he supposed to know what they should do?

“Visions? How can they be visions if they’re in the past?”

“Because they manifest like every other premonition that I have had except…”

“Except it’s like it’s happening to a Van Helsing extra?” frustration colours Sam’s cheeks but his voice barely reaches above a whisper, as though he’s embarrassed to be discussing this out loud.

“Yes! Exactly that!”

“C’mon Sammy, you did say he had the same hair as you so what is this? You need to save your great great times a jillion great grandfather so you can be born?” Dean retorts, a laugh etched on his face as he washes down the more aggressive tones in his voice with another swig of beer. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that this isn’t Hell, that he can’t be aggressive all the time. “You gotta understand how crazy this sounds?” Dean says weakly, the grin sliding off his face like jello. All he wants, for once, is for things to be normal. To be working cases with his brother, easing back into the hunts, hoping the nightmares will just go away, and to quell the uneasy feeling in his gut that Sam hasn’t been the same since Dean got back and it’s got damn all to do with the visions. Sam inhales and throws him that silent, serious look that makes him seem like a competent adult and an exasperated child at the same time.

“Please just, can we try it?”

“Try what?” Dean knows what Sam is talking about, but he wants his young brother to say it. He watches Sam closely, the way he avoids his gaze and how trepidation and determination battle for dominance.

“So, I know it’s in Wallachia in 1473 in Bucsani, maybe Bobby will have something that could help us go back there.” If Dean were an android, his brain would have short circuited at 1473 alone, after ‘go back there’ Sam might as well sell him for scrap metal.

“You’re aware you’re talking about time travel to Transylvania, right?”

“Wallachia Dean it’s different and, well yeah but when do we deal with normal? We fight demons, vampires, you’ve been to hell, I’ve been stuck in a time loop by a demigod – we know time is malleable.” Sam says with more force than he currently looks capable of. As pissed as Dean is, he’s aware that Sam has a point, so he asks the burning question that dances on the tip of his tongue despite acknowledging that, by even asking it, he knows that he’s giving an inch and that Sam has won.

“So, say hypothetically, we decide to try it, in case you haven’t noticed we aren’t demigods who can manipulate time and I highly doubt Bobby’s got a DeLorean outback.”

“Well, he’s got to have something, the man hoards stuff like crazy.” Sam rubs his face tiredly. “You can drive us down and we can see if he has anything.” Dean snorts.

“And how are we going to hide what we’re doing from him?” Dean asks curiously and Sam gives an irritated sigh.

“I don’t know Dean, think of something!”

“Rude.” Dean grins a little, it’s not said with any real malice, he’s mostly happy that his brother is well enough to put up with his crap, that for the first time since he’s got back they’re having a normal interaction.

“Look I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’ve having premonitions of things that haven’t happened yet in the past, and I really just want pizza.” As he voices his complaints he looks and sounds more and more like his six-year-old self when he was overtired, hungry, and missing dad. Dean takes pity on him.

“Come on, let’s get some food.”

“What about that pizza?” Sam asks pointing to the box on the floor.

“It’s trash, they replaced the spicy chorizo with salami, come on, we can get some more and talk strategy.” Dean stands abruptly and waits, making no attempt to hide his hovering in case Sam collapses like a house of cards.

“Who does that?” Sam asks with disgust, his steps surprisingly stable.

“Soulless people Sam, let’s hope we never lose our way enough to understand.” Dean replies grimly, grabbing the keys and ushering his younger, taller brother out of the room towards the daring endeavour for a more palatable pizza.

*****

The smell of old books, brewed coffee, and scrap metal from outside is gift wrapped in wallpaper that was already dated in the 1960s. There’s no place like Bobby’s. It’s childhood, comfort, security, and it’s currently under attack by his hellhound of a brother.

“What I don’t understand is how they got worse?” Standing in Bobby’s living room, Sam grips the book until his knuckles whiten and pauses for longer than he should. Eventually, he brings himself to respond.

“I don’t know either Dean, it was sometime after you left… Look are you going to help me look or not?” he asks, stealing himself to face his brother.

“All I’m saying is it went from a couple of nightmares, day-dreams whatever, to full on epileptic fits.” Dean continues with all the determination of cat who won’t surrender the live mouse to its horrified owners.

“Maybe Bobby has something on it.” Sam says lightly, putting the book back on the shelf and scouring another row. Usually Bobby’s place is a catalyst for nostalgia, like the time he split his head on the edge of the coffee table running from Dean’s pretend vampire. Now the inoffensive walls and the task at hand seem as oppressive and watchful as the Inquisition. _“We know what you’ve done.”_ they seem to say, even though Sam knows they can’t know anything at all. He swallows his uncertainty, tells himself he’s being paranoid, and tries to carry on as normal “Speaking of which, did Bobby say when he’d be back?”

“No, something about Rufus needing help with a ghouls’ ne- aww shit!” Sam turns upon hearing the thud of glass on the table. He finds Dean frantically trying to mop whisky from a paper on Bobby’s desk with his sleeve before giving up, removing the flannel, and soaking up the mess.

“Do you want a towel?” he asks unsympathetically.

“Ahm, ah yeah that would be great.” Dean replies sheepishly, wincing at the smell of his whisky sodden shirt. Sam grabs a towel from the kitchen and throws it over to Dean.

“Dude, it’s barely gone 12.”

“Yeah, well it’s 6 o’clock somewhere.” He replies with a feigned shamelessness. “So, the book.” His voice booms and he walks towards the worn-out shelf adjacent to Sam, glass in hand, scanning the rows carefully. Satisfied that Dean is at least making a show of helping him, Sam returns to the search, muttering the book names quietly.

_Tangling with Tulpas, H. Spengler and E. Zeddmore._

_Identifying Children from Changelings: A Childcare Approach. L. Braeden._

_Divine Sigils and Angelic Signs: Identifying Angels in Cross-Cultural Contexts, B. Abaddon._

_Demonic Possession from Acts to The Exorcist, Father Reynolds._

_Problems with Poltergeists, H. Spengler and E. Zeddmore._

“You think Bobby’s ever heard of the Dewey Decimal System.” Sam sighs.

“The what?” Dean turns to look at him, cocking his head to the right.

“Dean I know you know what the Dewey Decimal System is.”

“Yeah, it’s a system… of decimals and order and everything you love.” Dean turns back to the shelves and starts scanning them quickly. Sam squeezes his eyes shut then opens them again, blinking at the sudden bright light. It was going to be a long day.

In the end, while the sun is beginning to set, they place four books on Bobby’s kitchen table. One book is “a sure thing” according to Dean, and three are “promising” which had been said with the unconvincing certainty one uses when trying to light a barbeque on a drizzly day. Sam skims through the “sure thing”, while Dean grabs one of the “promising” books.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Sam scans centuries worth of time travel lore. It ranges from semi-plausible, such as opening portals through ritual summoning, to downright crazy, like ingesting a slurry of fish scales and rat’s liver while standing on one leg and chanting an incantation backwards.

With a sudden thud, Dean throws his book onto the table and Sam jumps up from his seat. “Don’t tell me that scared you.” He says laughing, leaning back in his chair.

“No Dean I think I’ve found it!” He carries the book over to Dean and throws it down in front of him “So, we open the portal by drawing an hourglass on the floor with these symbols” Sam points to a sun and a moon “On the top right hand and bottom left hand corners respectively. On the top left we write the place and the date that we travelled from and the bottom right the place and the date we want to go to. In the top part of the hourglass we need a token from here like dirt from the ground, something that is connected to Bobby’s, so the spell can locate us and in the bottom we need an object from where we want to go. We also need bags, like hex bags but not hex bags, with the scales of a dragon, some of our hair, and the bones of a small rodent.” Dean makes a disgusted face.

“Witches are gross.”

“Yeah, well, I mean we have all the stuff-”

“You mean, we have all the stuff except an object from Wallkieah.”

“It’s Wallachia.”

“Whatever.”

“Dean-” Sam starts but Dean silences him, standing from the couch and moving to Bobby’s desk.

“Sam, how are we meant to get something from Wallack- Wallachia anyhow, we’re in the middle of South Dakota?” Sam’s nostrils flare and he rolls his eyes before marching over the computer in the corner.

“If you would let me finish, when we were driving in, I saw an exhibit a few towns over on Vlad Tepes in Mitchell, I think. We could drive out and get it.” Sam types furiously and curses the slow computer and internet connection. After the rise and fall of several civilisations, the computer finally presents a list of results. Sam clicks the first link which takes him to The Mitchell Museum’s website, with the Tepas exhibit as the first result. “See, it’s on.”

“What the hell is a Dracula exhibit doing in South Dakota?” Dean asks unconvinced.

“It’s not Dracula, Vlad Tepes was some random minor nobility in Wallachia who lived in a castle. It says here most of what remains are bits of rock and clothes, the castle itself is completely gone.”

“Gone, like vanished gone?”

“Last time I checked that is the definition of gone.”

“Okay so what are the chances that any of these pieces going to be genuine?” and Sam shoulders slump and he turns from the blinding gaze of the computer.

“I don't know, but you said the same about the Ann Boleyn exhibit in Twin Falls and her ghost killed like what, four people?”

“Don’t remind me.” Dean grimaces “The bitch threw me into a wall and gave me a concussion.” He shudders and takes a sip of his drink.

“Besides, I don’t see what other option we have. It’s an hour and a half drive, worst case scenario we rule out another lead.”

“Are you talking about asking nicely for it? Or breaking in and borrowing it without permission?”

“Without permission of course.” Sam replies straight faced. He watches Dean mull this over, eyes closed, muttering slightly, but Sam knows he’s already won because Dean is considering it. Opening his eyes at last he gives an annoyed shrug.

“Sure okay, the elevator pitch worked. I’m sure my lockpicking skills are getting rusty and you need to hone your sneak. Let’s say we go Ocean’s 11 on this place” He replies dully, grabbing his coat and the keys to the impala.

“Hey I’ll drive.” Sam offers, grabbing his own coat from the kitchen chair.

“It’s my turn!”

“It’s always your turn!”

“Yeah, cos I’m older.” Dean says smiling smugly.

“Dude seriously you’ve been drinking all day.”

“Like that’s new, what show have you been watching?”

“We can’t do this if we get stopped by the cops before we even get there.” Sam says frustrated. He watches Dean try to come up with a retort before muttering:

“Dammit!” and handing him the keys. Sam smiles and leads the way out of the living room “But I get first try on lockpicks.” Dean calls after him.

“Whatever.” Sam replies as they head out the door with the aim of re-enacting a homage to Ocean’s 11.

*****

It wasn’t, in fact, a homage to Ocean’s 11. Such an event would require that the lead up to the heist had involved careful thought, planning, and time spent into handling its execution. Instead, it was more of a lockpicks snapping, window smashing, display case grabbing Bonnie and Clyde affair, and a streak of luck, hair width thick, that saved them from triggering the security alarms.

When they return to Bobby’s, Dean gathers the materials for the non-hex bags (the non-hex part is important apparently) while Sam sets up the ritual, drawing chalk sigils in Bobby’s scuffed living room floor and hoping that he won’t mind. At 1am they are ready to go. Rather than feeling exhaustion, Sam is alive with excitement and a giddy nervous energy at the possibility of being the first to do something like this. Dean, conversely, is tired and grumpy and Sam can see him almost suggest they leave it until tomorrow, if it weren’t for the fear that Bobby might return any minute, and what Sam has noticed is Dean’s own aversion to sleeping. “Right you ready?” Dean asks, glancing wearily at Sam.

“Yep.” Sam holds the book in his hands and stares at the four lines of text. He already knows it by heart, just in case they lose the book, but he skims it again to be sure. “Volumus ut diem hanc, Et confractus est sine fine temporis accessus et recessus, Lanum quaerere ut Deus temporis, Nam vires et auspicio differt in hoc opus.”

The brothers stand there, staring at Sam’s crude chalk drawings. They wait five minutes, nothing happens. “Maybe it doesn’t work until daylight?” Sam suggests hopelessly, not wanting to acknowledge the crushing disappointment in his chest.

“Or maybe it just doesn’t work at all.” Dean says, not bothering to conceal the frustration in his voice. Just as they turn their backs on the scene, there’s a sudden flash of light and a silvery blue portal, about five feet high, appears on the ground above the hourglass.

“Shit!”

“Dude!”

“It actually worked!” Sam’s face breaks out into cheek-straining grin and he hops excitedly from one foot to the other “Come on! Before it closes!” he heads forward to the entrance, bracing himself so he doesn’t get caught in its magnetic pull. “Dean!” Sam turns to see Dean at the end table of Bobby’s couch shovelling a few more forkfuls of pie into his mouth. Sam just stares at him incredulously.

“What?” Dean says as if his behaviour is perfectly rational “I’m about to go 500 years without pie.” At this Sam nods and turns towards the silvery blue portal, maybe it isn’t so unreasonable after all.

He steps inside, expecting it to be cold, but finding the temperature no different from Bobby’s living room. Dean knocks at his heels “Come on Sammy! I can’t time travel 500 years into the past with one leg!”

“I’m trying!” Sam takes another step forward and it’s as though someone has grabbed his collar shirt in their fist and is propelling him forwards, or maybe it’s backwards, into the flashing silvery blue. All Sam can see are the colours of the portal rushing past them as they head towards the unknown.

Back in Bobby’s living room the portal shimmers and glows for a few seconds longer like a Christmas centrepiece, before disappearing without a trace, as though it were never there.


	2. A Mean Right Hook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for taking so long to update, I hope you like this chapter. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos, I really appreciate it. I apologise for any grammar and/or spelling mistakes. They finally meet Belmont :).

“I reckon they were all witches.” The rotund man with the blacksmith apron declares loudly at the bar, looking around his enthralled audience with a self-satisfied superiority. “I was there when the Inquisition caught her you know, they had me make some special steel cuffs – they block witches power did you know, the devil is scared of that metal I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” They hang on every word in revered silence “And oh, she was a fierce, spitting, fiery thing I tell you, the years hadn’t been kind to her. She had long, streaking brown hair, almost black with mud, pale skin, yellow eyes from the magic would you believe, and a hoarse, cackling laugh that-”

Really, Trevor should just stop listening. It’s not like he hasn’t heard this story before, or at least some iteration of it, from a small town nobody who wants to be a Big Man retelling the fable of his mother’s capture. Hell, he knows it isn’t even true, but it awakens a curl of anger in his gut that the moonshine piss water they brew out back and try to pass off as liquor can’t extinguish.

In the early days he used to challenge the accusations, defend his family’s honour and all that. He traces a hand on the rotten wooden table, the other clutching what is becoming the rapidly pressing problem of his diminishing glass of spirits. He could of course still challenge them, and if he wasn’t two glasses past drunk, if he had an ounce of motivation in him, if he could fight off half a bar of yokels, then perhaps he would.  
He swallows the rancid remains of his cup and glances around the room from his table in the corner. Most are gathered around the bar itself, listening with rapt attention, the other tables are only sparsely populated with drifters or couples. He debates whether he should stay or go when the voice drifts over “grabbed her by the neck, cos with the hand cuffs you see she was powerless. Hissing and spitting she was, talking about Revenants and remains. Of course, that was just to cover up the people she ate, they were cannibals the Belmont’s were. My friend in the town guard told me when they ransacked their house that they found the bones and everything, cases upon cases of skulls like trophies they were. So, anyway, we’ve got her by the-” Trevor’s hand grips the glass so tight that it almost smashes as a flash of the warm smile his mother would give him after he skinned his knee appears before him.

Perhaps he still cares a little bit.

Before his brain can catch up with his anger, he’s made four surprisingly steady strides across the room to the bar and the offending party, signalling the bartender for another drink and casually looking over at the loudmouthed buffoon. The bartender eyes him wearily as he places his drink down in front of him, and Trevor hands him the gold before turning to the pinafore’d prat and locking eyes with him "Tell me, where were you when all this was taking place?” a voice he hasn’t had use for in a while, honed to command attention and obedience, disrupts the other man’s waffling idiocy.

When he realises that the authenticity of his tale is being challenged, the man puffs his flushing cheeks with indignation. “I was there watching it happen, I saw the whole thi-”

“Oh, because my understanding of it was that you were the blacksmith who was blubbering and pissing himself while they took her in.” he interjects with feigned realisation.

“I certainly did not!” the man blusters, scanning around at his audience to see whether they are buying this newcomer’s recounting of events. While many are unconvinced, there are some, Trevor notes, on the margins of the crowd who seem less certain of the credibility of the initial story.

“And where did you get your information? Did you see it with your own eyes!” the man cries.

“Of course not, I heard it in a tavern from someone who claimed to have been there, with no one to back up the claim, who said all sorts about the event. So, you know, it must be true.” Trevor says lightly, enjoying how the man’s face turns a magnificent shade of puce.

“And just who the hell are you?” a lanky man with thinning hair turns round to Trevor. Ah, the calvary. He thinks dully. The newcomer examines his tunic and clock, the fine weapons at his side, and the dark mop of hair. “Are you a Belmont?” he asks, his face hard and voice horrified. The crowd gasps and takes a frightened step back. Trevor, against all rhyme and logic, gives a small laugh before downing the remains of his glass.  
“I believe I am the son of, who you would call, ‘That fiery, hissing, spitting bitch.’” He says casually, standing to his full height, a hand close to his sword.

“He’s a witch as well!” A woman from the crowd cries in fear. Trevor shuts his eyes momentarily, cursing the last glass of liquor and willing every fibre of his being to stop running his mouth like an alcoholic, middle-aged aunt at the family Christmas get together.

“You know I prefer the term Warlock.”

_Dammit Belmont!_

The crowd takes yet another horrified step back and stands confused, as if waiting on direction. “I’ve had it up to here with your nonsense, come on Mihai, don’t take this crap.” The tall man responds, moving behind his friend, fists ready. The rotund man draws himself up to his full height, although Trevor can see his eyes dart nervously to ensure he has exhausted any other means of escape. Several other men, including the bartender, form a semi-circle around him and stand menacingly in wait. Trevor sighs.

“What, are you scared I’m going to eat you?” Trevor says with a shit-eating grin. This seems to do the trick as the men rush towards him. No sooner than he manages to trip up the man to his left, he receives a blow from his right side as someone punches the soft space between his ribs and pelvis. He kicks out at them while grabbing his sword with his left hand to slash at the next wave of opponents. With the cry that follows, Trevor dimly registers that his hit has landed, but before he has time to celebrate the small win, an assailant hits him in the face and red, hot pain shoots up his nose. He grunts and tries to take a few steps back, but the crowd of people have formed a circle around himself and the three remaining opponents, blocking any room he has for manoeuvre.

The three men left have their swords drawn. They’re scabby, rusting old things but they have a pointy end and that’s what counts. The rush forward to engage and Trevor follows suite in a sequence of muscle memorised moves. Back and forth, their feet tapping off the stone floor, swords carving into wooden beams and clanking off brick walls. The rest of the pub waits with bated breath to see who will win, the witch or the warriors.

The thing is, he would have gotten them if he hadn’t lost his step mid-way through a bold strike forward, had he angled his leg just a little further, had he not been out of practice. It’s enough of a chance that Dimitir had managed to knock the sword out of his hand, allowing the third unnamed assailant to trip him up and the now magenta faced Mihai to grab his arms behind his back. With a fluid movement his arms are pinned by the vice grip of the blacksmith and there is a sword at his throat. Trevor curses his underestimation of the strength of a man who lifts hammers all day. “We’ve got you!” a hoarse, foul, and boozy breath rattles past Trevor’s cheek. “We’re gonna teach you a lesson, vanquish the evil Belmonts for good!” if the man doesn’t reduce the volume of his voice, Trevor is decidedly certain that he will become deaf before he reaches the end of his life. His fight against the vicelike arms is lacklustre as a rusty blade is raised theatrically into the air. Before he has time to really think of any last thoughts, a bright flash of light engulfs the space behind the gathered crowd.

When the shocking rays fade, the crowd has parted enough in surprise and fear that Trevor can see a silvery blue portal, about five feet wide, hovering in the middle of the tavern. No one can move, the sword that would have been his demise hangs loosely at his captor’s side, and if the vicelike grip had slackened somewhat, Trevor is sure he could have ducked out of the pub unbeknownst to the inhabitants. They wait, watching the strange, shimmering threshold. “We’ve been falling for hours! I don’t think this has worked!” Trevor thinks he hears faintly.

“My watch says a few minutes.” A calmer voice yells.

“Yeah, how do you know your watch still works?”

“How do you know it doesn’t?”

“Bitch!”

“Jerk!” on the last phrase two men are thrown out of the portal and land on the stone floor of the pub. They’re wearing fabrics that Trevor has never seen before, checked pattern shirts and blue trousers. They look around wearily at their surroundings, uncertainty on their faces as they register the gaping shock of the pub’s inhabitants.

“I think it worked.” The blond-haired man says to a brown-haired one. They stand slowly, revealing their towering height. “Uh hi!” the blond-haired man smiles awkwardly, offering a small wave.

There is a pindrop silence. Then:

“Witch!” Mihai yells, his arms dropping from Trevor as he rushes towards the newcomers, Dimitir and the third assailant in tow.

“We’re not witches!” The taller man stresses, looking worried, but this only further agitates the crowd.

“That’s what a witch would say!” someone in the crowd yells and the blond-haired man rolls his eyes.

“In that case yeah, why not? We’re witches!” he replies aggressively.

“So, you admit to being a witch!” Mihai yells, somehow appearing both scared and self-righteous.

“For fuck’s sake.” The blonde man sighs and throws a sudden right hook to Mihai’s face, who takes a few dazed steps back. It’s enough to spur his friends into action and once again another fight breaks out.  
It passes slowly and quickly at the same time. Somehow, the two unarmed newcomers manage to disarm the three men quickly, throwing punches left, right, and centre until the men are unconscious, or possibly dead, at their feet. The pub’s remaining inhabitants look terrified, glancing to one another, the newcomers, and Trevor, who has managed to make it onto his feet. Without a second thought they run screaming from the small tavern, thundering out of the building as fast as the tiny door will allow them. It takes several moments but soon he is alone with the two strange men, the sound of heavy breathing, light cursing, and a crackling fire filling the room.

Trevor stretches, and after assessing for damage, he decides he’s dealing with a cut to his arm, most certainly a broken nose, and a good pattern of bruises to his midsection. “This the guy?” the blond-haired man asks the brown-haired man. Trevor feels the inquisitive gaze of the taller man.

“Yep that’s him.” He says happily.

“I’m sorry but where are you from?” he asks, his voice bored and detached.

“What year is it?” the brown-haired man asks.

“1473” Trevor replies.

“About 500 years from the future.” The shorter man replies stoically.

Hmmm, from the future. Okay. He thinks dully.

“Alright.” Belmont shrugs and starts heading back towards the now open bar.

“Alright? We just came out of a portal, scared half of a pub, and told you we’re time travellers and your response is ‘Alright?’” the taller man asks incredulously.

“What would you prefer?” Trevor turns, his voice flat, eyes glazed and uninterested “Oh no! People have come through a portal! Stay back witches! May the power of Christ compel you blah blah blah.” The taller man blinks, perplexed.

“We could be witches.” Trevor rolls his eyes and returns to his previous trajectory towards the bar.

“You could be, but I see you have markings that ward off from demonic possession.” He points absentmindedly back in their direction. “And if you are witches from the future, you would need to make a pact with a demon to get that kind of power. It’s more likely that you’re idiots who have gotten a hold of a spell book without knowing what it’s for and blundered your way back in time. So, I see two possible scenarios.” He continues, pulling out a glass and a bottle “I’m either so drunk I’m hallucinating, in which case you are not my problem. Or I’m not that drunk, and you are a problem, so I will get drunk enough to believe you are a hallucination, making you not my problem.” At this he raises his glass to the two men in a toast “Cheers” before downing it and pouring himself another.

“I travelled 500 years into the past to save this asshole?” the shorter man growls at the taller man before turning to Trevor “That kind of short-term thinking do you any favours?”

“Well I’m still alive.” He responds as if that explains everything. The taller man scoffs.

“Yeah, that’s only because we saved your ass. You were about to get ganked.” Trevor frowns and turns to face them. They’re rather persistent for hallucinations and he’s beginning to think that maybe he’s not lying in a gutter somewhere, that maybe the bar fight, the portal, and the two men before him are real.

“Ganked?” He asks, despite his dread he somehow maintains an air of complete indifference.

“Stabbed, shafted, killed, toodaloo’d.” The shorter man replies aggressively, stalking behind the bar and pouring his own drink from a small glass. He eyes the off-clear liquid suspiciously before taking a swig. Trevor watches with amusement as the man’s face scrunches momentarily and he coughs slightly. “Jesus, what is this stuff?”

“Local moonshine, they brew it out back from potatoes.” He explains suppressing a small grin.

“So, vodka?”

“I’m not sure what that is.” The other man nods as if his answer clarifies a question that Trevor isn’t aware is being asked. The man turns back to his glass and stares at it for a moment, looking almost betrayed.

“I would throw you down that sink if it hadn’t been 500 years since I last drank.” His voice surly, face grimacing as he takes a second swig and the taste hits his tongue.

“Dean, can we focus on our mission here?” the long-suffering voice of the brown-haired man calls out as he comes into Trevor’s field of vision.

“First of all, who are you?” he asks the two strangers.

“I’m Sam Winchester, this is my brother Dean. We’re hunters.” Trevor nods slowly.

“And time travel is part of your hunting?”

“No, this is a new, one-time, limited-edition thing.” The blond-haired one- Dean says forcefully.

“What do you hunt?” Trevor asks, offering Sam a glass of moonshine.

“I’m fine, thanks, first why don’t you tell us who you are?” Trevor raises his eyebrows slightly, despite the haze that the booze is having on his brain, he registers dimly that they did travel back in time to save him specifically.

“What do you know about me? Seeing that you travelled back in time to save me, apparently.”

“Well uh we don’t actually know a lot about you, we just, well I just saw that you were in danger and I wanted to help. I dragged Dean along.” Trevor frowns.

“How could you know that I was in danger?” he asks confused, because none of this is adding up.

“First of all, you need to tell us who you are, and why we risked our lives to come back here to save your ass.” Dean asks while banging his glass down on the table.

“My name is Trevor Belmont, from the family Belmont. I’m the last of my name. We hunt- we hunted monsters, evil witches, demons etc. Before the people of this region turned on us and killed us all. Is that enough, or do you want the full-feature, uncut edition?”

“Your family was killed by people, not demons?” Dean asks confused.

“I don’t know what time you come from but in 1473 we burn things that we find strange.” Trevor replies drily.

“I’m sorry to hear that about your family.” Sam replies gently, and Trevor can see he means it, his eyes are sympathetic, and he seems genuinely saddened. Despite this, he has a small feeling in his bones that he shouldn’t trust this man. He doesn’t dwell on it, instead he stores it in a part of his brain of Things he Should Think about Later and concentrates instead on the words that come out of the man’s mouth. “I had a vision, multiple actually, in 2008, and you got stabbed in a tavern fight. I tried to research who you were, but I didn’t have anything to go on, I just knew that somehow you were important and that we had to help you.” Sam says quietly, despite Trevor’s gnawing feeling that he shouldn’t trust the man, he can’t help but believe that in this instance that he’s telling the truth.

“Okay.” He replies quietly. Vision. A Speaker? Again, he pulls out the Things he Should Think about Later file and jams in it while tipping the remainder of the contents of his glass into his mouth.

“Alright? My brother just told you that you’re important enough to risk travelling back in time to save, and all you can say is okay?” Dean asks incredulously. Trevor frowns at this.

“I really don’t know what else you want me to say.” He slides off the stool with an unstable stance and the pain in his nose and body is heavily muted. “I appreciate your help gentlemen I do, but if there isn’t anything else, I recommend you go back to the time you came from before the Inquisition arrives. That is unless you have a thing for being burned at the stake.” He says offhandedly.

“Inqui-what?” Sam asks confused.

“The Inquisition, you know the people who burned heretics and witches at the stake in the name of God.” Dean explains as if it’s obvious. Sam frowns.

“How do you know that?”

“History class.”

“Dean you never showed up to class.”

“I did when it was interesting and burning people at the stake was interesting. They got it so wrong, get this, they thought that mixing herbs in a tub made you a witch.” Dean says laughing.

“Or stitching a wound.” Trevor says smiling slightly, leaning against the bar.

“Exactly! Or being able to read a book.” Dean adds, polishing off his new glass and dropping it in the bucket that serves as a sink.

“Right, well, that sounds… horrible actually. Dean we should probably head.” Sam says brusquely and pulls what looks like chalk from his backpack. Trevor watches with vague interest as the man draws an hourglass on the floor with a sun, a moon, and what look like dates.

“What are you doing?” Trevor asks Sam as he pours dirt onto the upper part of the hourglass.

“Hand me a glass of the moonshine Dean. And uh, it’s part of a ritual that can send us back to our time. Uh thanks.” He takes the glass Dean hands him and places it in the bottom section of the hourglass. “You ready Dean?” he asks.

“Yep, let’s get this show on the road.” He claps his hands together and turns to Trevor “It was great to meet you, I hope you find out whatever the hell you’re meant to do to complete your destiny yadda yadda.”

“So, you really have no idea why you were supposed to save me?” he asks, mildly irritated, because he never asked for anyone to jump in and save him and the thought of having some unspecified, unfulfilled destiny fills him with a trepidation that he can’t stand to think about.

“Nope, just keep your head out of trouble. No more bar fights.” Sam says with an uneasy grin.

“Look, we’re just the guys in the story who jump back to the protagonist, save their ass, then leave, like uh… you’re Yu Gi Moto, and you’re getting trashed in a duel and we’re you’re Dark Magician Card, your deus ex machina.” Trevor stares blankly at Dean.

“What’s a Yu Gi Moto?” he asks, Sam shrugs just as clueless.

“You’re guess is actually as good as mine.”

“Goddammit Sammy how many times do I need to tell you! Anime is an artform!” Dean raises his hands over his head in frustration.

“If you say so.” Trevor responds, uncertain as to whether being a ‘Yu Gi Moto’ and an ‘anime’ are good or bad things.

“Right, I’ll start the spell then.” Sam urges Dean forward, backs turned to Trevor as he watches curiously. “Volumus ut diem hanc, Et confractus est sine fine temporis accessus et recessus, Lanum quaerere ut Deus temporis, Nam vires et auspicio differt in hoc opus.” Trevor waits, tapping his fingers against the bar.

“Does this usually happen?” he asks after ten minutes.

“Does what usually happen?” Sam asks.

“Does it usually not work?”

“It took a while the last time.” Sam explains.

“Not this long, does it say anything in the book?” Dean asks as Sam skims the contents. In the interim, Trevor goes to the window and glances out at the night. In the distance he can see tiny pin pricks of light that seem to be moving closer towards them.

“Dammit!” he turns to face a frustrated Sam “Okay so the spell can only be activated every four days, to reflect each of the seasons of the year.”

“And that makes sense how?”

“I don’t know Dean; I don’t have access to google.”

“But you’re saying we’re stuck here?”

“Yeah, for four more days.” Dean rubs his hands down his face and walks off into the centre of the tavern.

“Fucking great!” he yells, kicking a rotten chair in his path.

“I hate to disrupt the ‘fucking great’ time you’re having, but the Inquisition is coming, and I think we all ought to flee.” Trevor informs them before he walks to the hourglass, picks up the drink, and downs it in one smooth go.

“Hey!” Sam interjects.

“What? It’s not like it can send you home. Come on, there’s an exit out back.” He heads towards the partly concealed doorway and turns when he finds neither of the men are following him.

“Are you coming? Or do you plan to die here?” Trevor knows he should just leave, but he feels he owes them a debt for saving his life.

“What choice do we have, come on Sam.” Dean walks towards Trevor then pauses, and heads instead for the cash drawer, emptying its contents. Then he marches towards the exit. Upon seeing the thick layer of snow upon the ground, he finds two cloaks left from the pub and throws one to Sam. Once they’re dressed for the weather, they head outside.

Even in the cold, misty night the voices of the fanatical hoard travel towards them in indistinct yelling and shouting. They should have left much sooner than they did. Trevor leads them off towards the forest, the trees impossibly tall and dark, like razor sharp teeth against the brilliant white snow.

“I hope you guys are fast, we have an Inquisition to outrun.” Trevor calls back to them apathetically, not entirely certain that he has the capacity to run. The two men nod determinedly, as though they’re used to this Trevor notes silently. The sounds of the hoard grow louder as the three men allow the forest to swallow them up.


End file.
